


The Queen's Womb

by rosncrntz



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alternate Episode 8, F/M, Fix-It, Longing, Pregnancy, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8531107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: After a while apart, Lord Melbourne visits the Queen, to see how she is. He finds her, heavily pregnant. All the days they once shared, and Melbourne's past longings, reemerge. He is reminded why it is that he loves the Queen so dearly, and why it hurts so much. Fix-It for episode 8.





	1. The Pregnant Queen

Queen Victoria was quite overcome with cravings: cravings for something sugary and something sugary in abundance.

It was the sad fact of her pregnancy, the loss of control of her appetite. One day she would eat nothing at all, for all food made her stomach turn. The next, she would sit and eat cake at every meal. The following, she would declare that she could never eat again, and be forced to eat a little porridge, which she could barely stomach. And, the next day, she would eat jellies until she felt she would burst.

It was most disturbing for the cooks: who did not know whether they should prepare the meals and delicacies, or not bother, for fear of them being neglected. In truth, they could not predict the Queen’s appetite on any particular day, and so they made food nonetheless, despite their work ending up cold and wasted on more than one occasion.

But, on this day, the Queen had an appetite. Not an appetite for jellies, or pies, or even cakes. But, on this day, she had a craving for crystallised fruits that could not be ignored. Of any kind, no matter the expense, she wished for a sugar-coated platter of glossy colours, and what the Queen desired, she received. Before she knew she’d been waiting for them, she was curled in a chair, picking candied oranges from a silver plate, and feeling surprisingly unsatisfied.

Despite giving the gnawing feeling in her stomach what it wanted, the feeling did not go away.

But, still, she poked her finger around the citrus sweets before taking a slice in her hands and beginning to nibble on the rind, like a dormouse with nothing better to do. Drumming fingers on her bulbous tummy, and gazing absent-mindedly out of the window, she noticed a carriage trundling through the gates of the palace. She recognised the carriage almost immediately – from the shade of the wheels and the size of the window and the horses that pulled it. There was no mistaking that the carriage belonged to her dear Lord Melbourne – and his was a face that she missed.

In the chill of the blue room in which she sat, she felt a warmth again. It had been a while. Too long.

Lord Melbourne was received, welcomed, and shown into a room. The Queen would have met him at the door, if a sense of decorum had not reminded her to remain where she sat and leave the Prime Minister waiting for a while before she ran at him. Also, she soon realised that she did not have the energy she once had, now that her stomach was swelling to the size of a bowling ball.

So, after the longest period her impatient temperament could muster, she pulled herself to her feet and waddled towards the drawing room, where she knew the Prime Minister would be waiting for her. She held her tummy, and became suddenly aware that Lord Melbourne had not yet seen her in a state of pregnancy such as this. The last time they’d met, no exterior shows would reveal the child she bore. But, now, it was impossible to ignore the protruding of her womb.

She was struck by a vague and fleeting worry; it passed over her like a blush on the cheek or a breeze passing across a leaf, and was gone almost as soon as she had comprehended it. She was afraid that he would be disturbed by the sight of her body: bloated and round. It was the same fear she had expressed to Albert. She shared a bed with Albert, and she shared her nights with him, and so such concerns made sense. But why was it that she feared the bad opinion of her Prime Minister, after all this time?

The concern melted before the question could be answered.

Lord Melbourne, who was stood at the window, awaiting the Queen’s arrival with a certain restlessness, could fear footsteps echoing in the corridor outside. He had come to learn the pace of the Queen’s walk: it was quick and light. These footsteps were not quick and light. They were laboured, heavy, and a little more disjointed than what Lord Melbourne had expected of the Queen. And, combining these factors in his head, he decided that it could not be the Queen about to enter the room. But, if not her, then who? He could not think of anyone in the palace who owned such a heavy footfall.

The door was opened, and it wafted something perfumed in his direction, and into the room entered none other than Queen Victoria.

He was wrong, but it took no time at all for him to realise why. Of course, the Queen was with child, heavily, now.

_And he had never seen anything more beautiful._

“My dearest Lord M!” she cried, holding her hands out in front of her, fingers spread, anticipating his touch. He obliged her, taking those hands and holding them tightly. The feeling crept into his skin, gripping the veins until blood stopped and she became all-consuming. God, just to hold her hands again was blissful. It was something they had done so very often once upon a time, when the days were only theirs and in that they were long. “I am so glad to see you!” she gushed, gazing up at him, eyes watered and full, smiling the softest smile. He followed the soft lines of her face, passing in shadows over ivory skin, the curve of her nose, highlighted in the day streaming into the room, leading into the pink of her lip, and he traced the tendons in her neck down to her clavicles, and then down to her stomach, which had grown with the life it carried.

Melbourne had always carried the greatest fascination towards the strength of the female form, particularly in the conception of children. His mother had born five pregnancies after his birth. He could remember how his mother would suddenly begin to wear loose-fitting gowns, and complain of headaches and nausea, and then he would notice her begin to swell. He had found books to read about the phenomenon – and had found the whole affair both disturbing and miraculous. He would touch her mother’s bump, and feel the soft kicks and turns of his unborn brother or sister. It had made him gasp.

When Caroline fell pregnant, he had thought it the purest blessing in all the world. He had always imagined himself a father: above being a lover, above being a husband, or a friend, or a politician, an intellectual. Above that all, most precious in his estimation, was fatherhood. To see the swelling of her form, and know that the child harboured within was his. To lay a hand on that stomach, and know that his boy was kicking and rolling, ready to live. To see his wife fulfilling the natural strength of her sex – more brave and more strong than he could ever have imagined her to be.

There was nothing quite so humbling, and he wished for it again. He missed being a father. _He missed his boy._

And to see his dearest Victoria with child, growing large from her small babe, glowing with dewy skin and pink cheeks, plump in the arm and the chest: there was nothing more beautiful to him. He had seen the Queen adorned in pearls, tied up with diamonds, dusted with flowers on her wedding day – but he had never seen her in this, the purest form of her beauty. Her strength, which he knew teemed within every vein of her, always, was now manifesting itself physically, for the world to admire.

“I am most pleased to see your Majesty looking so well,” he replied, issuing a curt nod and a smile, the front to a soul that was staggered by her.

“I am not sure about that, Lord M!” Victoria laughed. Her laugh was crystalline and silvery. It poured mercury into him. It made him weak. “I have always been small, but now I fear I am growing wide!” She backed away from Melbourne to show off her bump, which she ran her hands over affectionately. He looked at it, with affection rivalling the mother herself.

“That is the consequence of child bearing, Ma’am, I’m afraid!” Melbourne chuckled. His laugh was brassy, in comparison to her silvery tone.

They sat down together, the way they used to do, and Lord M asked Victoria of her relations with Sir Robert Peel. He was aware that the two were gaining a more affectionate acquaintance – as Lord Melbourne did not see his position lasting much longer. He was intrigued as to how affectionate this acquaintance had become for, by Robert Peel’s account, the Queen was becoming fond of him. He could hardly believe such a thing to be possible. He wished it were, in some strange sense, casting aside the reluctance he felt at stepping down, and the gnawing feeling that resembled something like jealousy. He wished that Victoria could be happy. And he knew that she would never be happy until she accepted Robert Peel, and tried to form some sort of friendship with him. He wished that Peel could make it easier for the Queen: it was difficult to form any affection towards someone so charmless and so commonly vulgar.

“I understand you were not fond of Sir Robert, has that changed at all, Ma’am?” he asked. He had expected a groan but did not receive one.

“Robert Peel is a good man.”

The pang, the gnaw, the thing that felt like jealousy, seized him again.

“I once thought him charmless, and even vulgar. But I don’t think he is any of those things, really. He can be blunt, and a little humourless, and perhaps even stuffy, but his heart is in a good place. I believe he will be kind to me, Lord M,” Victoria pondered, looking at the ground. Did she recall fond memories of Sir Robert Peel? Had they shared the same laughs, the same conversations, that Lord Melbourne had shared with her? “Of course, I would rather have you, Lord M!” Victoria gushed. Melbourne immediately brightened himself, afraid that she had noticed a sort-of jealousy in his looks, and replying, with a breeziness,

“How very kind of you, Ma’am.”

“Oh, but it’s true, Lord M. I fear I shall miss you greatly when you are no longer my Prime Minister,” Victoria said with more earnestness than before, her hands falling into her lap, hands clasped together until her knuckles turned yellow.

“You are married, Ma’am!” Melbourne’s words were intended to be jovial. He wished them to be laughed. He wanted them to show pride. He feared they were not, however, and he feared that she could hear the hurt in the words. “You have no reason to miss me.”

“No, I suppose that is silly of me, isn’t it?” she sighed, before smiling, broadly, and chiming, “I am soon to be a mother, and so I will have no time to miss you! I will be busy, all of the time, and so I will have no time to think!”

Melbourne began to laugh at the Queen’s folly, before he realised that she had begun to cry, without warning, and then the laugh melted from his face, and his hand twitched as he considered reaching out to her. A hand clasped to her mouth, her head cast down in shame, her shoulders trembling, she battled with the tears that threatened to overwhelm her.

“Ma’am?”

“Oh, I must stop! They say that stress is dangerous for the baby! _Oh!_ ” she cried, voice thick and hoarse, throat tightening until she could hardly take in breath. She shook her head fervently. She took gulps of air.

“Tell me, Ma’am. What is it that upsets you?” Melbourne asked, fist clasping and unclasping, restless, brow knotted and creased and furrowed.

“I am afraid.”

“Afraid, Ma’am?”

“Of everything! I am afraid I will go the same was as Charlotte. They all think I will. They’re all preparing for it. I can’t stand it! All this talk of my death! I am too young to die!” Victoria wept, clasping her hand over her mouth again to stifle sobs she feared would raise alarm. The last thing she wanted was servant upon servant upon mother upon Lehzen upon Albert flooding into the room. She was embarrassed already, and Lord Melbourne was her closest friend.

Finally conceding to take one of the hands that lay in her lap, Lord Melbourne picked it up softly and wrapped in within both of his hands, stroking thumbs across the veins that branched through her, running his rough palms over her fingers. Her hands were cold, and he was intent upon warming them.

“Do not say such things. That will not happen,” he promised. His words firm. Sensible. Warm.

“And even if I do have the child: what if the child is not healthy? What if I cannot care for it? What if I am not ready to be a mother?” she cried, her questions garbled from trembling lips.

“Victoria, listen to me.” If Victoria wasn’t already listening, the use of her name had called upon all her attentions, blotting her tears and quietening her trembling. “There is no one more fit to be a mother than you. I have known many a weaker woman bear a child.”

Victoria sniffed, wiping a tear that streamed down her cheek, and asked in a small voice,

“You think me strong enough?”

Without hesitation, and with great conviction, Melbourne replied,

“I know you are strong enough.”

His words had always been the greatest solace to her. He had been the first person on this Earth to tell her of her strength, and he made her believe it. Even now. The truth was that she empowered him to tell her in the first place. She invigorated him as much as he did her. Even in these moments of weakness, Melbourne’s courage sought her out.

She turned to him, eyes still wet and cheeks still ruddy, but he found her rawness intoxicating. She still looked afraid. He was not arrogant enough to think that he could banish all her fear – although he wished he could. It was only concern for her peace of mind that led him to wish for an end to the fear. Fear, he thought, only strengthened her at a time like this.

She had nothing to fear.

“I wish I could go back again. Things were simpler once, weren’t they?” Victoria said, smiling the littlest smile, enjoying the warmness slipping into her hands, now that they were wrapped within Lord M’s. Her meaning, so simple and unfancied and uncorrupted and pure, so void of any double-meaning or slight of language, struck him so to the heart that it brought a tear to his eye.

“Yes, they were, weren’t they?” he said, exhaling a half-laugh, half-sigh, yearning for the past that had harboured such sweetness. The sweetest days of his life: that he knew were coming to a close. Like the swish of a velvet curtain at the end of a play, he wished for an encore. But the swish of that curtain was final, the stage was obscured, and he knew no applause would sound. The play would never again be performed. The years were over.

His body ached for them.

“Would you like to feel?” Victoria asked, feeling Melbourne’s sadness and responding to it, instinctually. She had drawn her hands away from his grasp and was holding her belly. Melbourne looked from her face to her hands over her tummy, and back to her face again. He felt confused. What right had he to feel the kicks of the unborn prince or princess? He had no authority over the child, no ties to the child, no connection with the babe at all. He did not feel right about it. But he could not resist accepting.

Victoria took his hands which were pale and malleable in hesitancy, and she drew them towards the bump of her womb, towards the child, and placed the hands there, holding them there, pressing them down slightly. Victoria could feel her inward breath hitch as his hands learned the curve of her tummy. It made the pit of her stomach bubble. It made the back of her neck sweat. Her heart leaped.

Melbourne was at first flustered by this intimate contact with Victoria, and it had almost made him blush, and certainly made him breathless. His pulse quickened in his wrist and in his neck, and his eyelids fluttered. His mouth waxed dry.

He imagined it was his child that lay within the Queen.

_Such a thought, was it treason?_

Then, as if acutely tuned into pressure on its mother’s womb, the baby kicked. Little movements, all tiny and quick, so small that he may not have felt them if he were less riveted. Victoria giggled. Melbourne chuckled, feeling warm and full of an indiscernible joy at her unborn child and the pure beauty of new life. Pride swelled within him. She was beautiful, and this child was sure to be just as strong, and beautiful, and clever, and witty, and headstrong, and obstinate, and powerful, and angry, and kind as she was.

_If only he could call the child his._


	2. The Crying Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melbourne receives a message early in the morning, it can only be one thing. He hurries to the palace to meet the Queen and her new child.

There could be only one reason why Lord Melbourne would be called to Buckingham Palace at this ungodly hour, and he had been prepared for such news for weeks. The moment the message arrived at his door, he summoned a carriage and thundered down the winding English roads, stopping at nothing until he reached the palace.

It was a cold and quiet morning, still. One of those mornings when it feels as if time has stopped. Not a breath of wind, not a rustle of a leaf or a tapping of a branch, not whistle nor puff. It was silent. Eerily so, so when Melbourne clicked the lock on the door of the carriage, the sound reverberated through his eardrums, echoing in his head. So still that the palace gates tolled like Big Ben to yield his entrance. So quiet that he could hear his own footsteps rumbling on the cobbles and his breath billow in great clouds before his face as he hurried towards the doors of the palace, eyes sore with lack of sleep but the beating of his heart keeping him alert.

Despite the silence and the stillness of the outside, he could practically hear her inside the palace, through the walls and walls that separated them, screaming. _Heart and voice._

There were various other carriages sitting in dark and empty lines and, once inside, he could see many an ashen face. Everyone was present to welcome the heir to the English throne, and everyone was terrified at the prospect of it. There was no joy in a royal childbirth, Lord Melbourne hastily reminded himself, only fear at all that might go wrong. A pang struck his heart like a thunderbolt when he thought of how scared she must be. If her own fear weren’t enough, the fear of all that surrounded her must heighten all her pain until it seared. And now it seared him, although he confessed his pain could not nearly be as much as hers.

He wished he could sap some of hers, and own it for himself.

“Lord Melbourne, sir!” a familiar voice called. Melbourne turned to see Sir Robert Peel, face muddied in nerves and body bound in hunches and shiverings, but eyes brightened by his attempt at friendliness – something which Lord Melbourne was not at all interested in but, of course, was too polite to ignore. Peel did not wish to be friendly to Melbourne, but saw no alternative: duty compelling him. “Have you come all this way from Brocket Hall? And so early in the morning?” he asked.

“It is not every day that a monarch gives birth, sir. I believe a journey, however long and however early, was entirely necessary,” he replied, raising his eyebrows and taking on an air of easy charm that he always resorted to when talking to politicians, friends, whores: almost everyone but the Queen herself. “And, besides, I have had a close acquaintance with the Queen for some time now, it would be rude of me to stay at home,” he added, with a touch more wistfulness in his voice that crept into his tone without him realising it, and his muscles tensed when he thought of Peel noticing it. “Of course, I am the Prime Minister, after all,” he added as a final remark – reminding Peel that this engagement was purely political. Reminding him that the sight of Victoria did not make his lungs collapse. Reminding him that he did not miss her twinkly laugh more and more with each passing moment. Reminding him that he had no desire for the child to belong to him.

Reminding him that what he felt for the Queen was nothing even resembling love.

“Yes, of course,” Peel responded. “I believe the Queen will be happy to see you.”

“She will not have time to see me, surely, Sir Robert.”

“I would not be so sure, Melbourne,” Peel answered in a flat tone, remembering how often he had heard the Queen mention ‘Lord M’ and how it angered him so. Just then, a man with a drawn-out face and a look in his eye that made him undeniably _Tory_ placed a hand on Sir Robert’s arm, and called him away. “Pardon me, Melbourne,” Sir Robert said, bowing, before turning away and walking with the gaunt fellow across the room, leaving Melbourne alone with his own thoughts. God, what a horrible prospect. His thoughts led him to consider the Queen and her pain and her sorrow and her fear and his pain and sorrow and fear. He wished for distractions. Anything.

“William!” another familiar voice; this time, that of a woman. He turned to Lady Portman, who was looking more tired than he was used to seeing her, and less tidy as she had put herself together in a hurry, but her face was so warm in its familiarity, and so close to his affections, that she was near perfection to his eye.

“Emma,” he said, taking one of her hands and kissing it. Lady Portman was pleased to see Lord Melbourne, as she was afraid he would not make the trip down from Brocket Hall. He was putting on his air of easy charm but Emma was wise enough and quick enough to see through it, and see William instead. And William was suffering, softly. He was tired from his journey, and it had made him ache and creak, she could see that – but there was something more that disturbed his peace. He was thinking of her. Lady Emma had seen Lord Melbourne thinking of the Queen many a time, and knew exactly when it was that she passed through his mind, as she could interpret the particulars of his face at such a time. The subtle sheen that glassed over the green of his eyes, the creasing of his forehead, lines, forming where age was creeping into him, creasing into crevasses. His thumbnails would dig so hard into his fingers that she was afraid he would draw blood. His bleeding heart was written over his face.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, keeping her voice soft, careful not to press too hard, careful not to have anyone overhear. Lady Emma was incredibly sensible, not only intellectually but, perhaps more importantly, emotionally. Her sensitivity was unrivalled. Melbourne appreciated it. He valued sensitivity in people. There weren’t enough sensitive people on this earth, he felt. Melbourne liked to surround himself with sensitive people where he could, and intelligent people, and that was why he liked Lady Emma quite so much.

Lord Melbourne knew what Lady Emma meant by this, and replied,

“I am not afraid. She is strong.”

He looked afraid, Lady Emma thought, but she did not dwell on it. She swallowed her concern, smiled at her friend, and nodded. She noticed, just past William’s right ear, the Prince.

“The Prince looks afraid,” she whispered, gesturing towards him. Melbourne turned to the direction of her gesture, and saw the young German, the Queen’s husband, stood beside the piano, biting his lip, chewing on it as if he wished to eat it, his moustache grating on his chin as he did so.

“So he does.”

“You should talk to him, William.”

“No, I-“

“He might find comfort in your counsel.”

“I do not think the Prince favours me, Lady Emma.”

“Oh, nonsense! Look how distracted he is. Go and talk to him, William.”

He knew Lady Emma to be wise, and wry, and fiercely, almost bitterly, clever, and so he could not stop his mind from accepting her advice as worthy. It did not matter that his own judgement ruled against it. Sighing, and oppressing his own reserve, he moved towards the pale Prince and, upon reaching the piano where he stood, spoke in a low voice,

“How is her Majesty, your Royal Highness?” Lord Melbourne asked, bowing slightly. Albert, distracted as Lady Emma had said, stammered for a second, looking around, chewing his lip and turning paler, before replying,

“She is well, I believe, Lord Melbourne.”

“You believe, sir?” Melbourne asked, trying to initiate some form of conversation if possible, to quell the Prince’s raging nerves that were seizing every expression passing across his face like stormy tides on a rock. His form was stiff like a rock. His blood was cold like a rock.

“They’ve advised me to stay away, at least for a while.”

“Ah, yes. Of course,” Melbourne said, nodding. He wanted, so much, to offer more warmth to the Prince, as he knew it would make his Victoria happy. But he could not. The fire in him: that jealousy that fed on him, could not be quietened. It was sinful to feel how he did.

“Lord Melbourne,” the Prince asked, interrupting the Prime Minister’s thoughts, “may I ask you something?”

Lord Melbourne had not expected the Prince to say such a thing to him. He knew that the feelings shared between the two of them were not kindly. More cold than anything. It came as a surprise, but Melbourne nodded,

“Of course,” he said.

“I hope you do not mind my mentioning it, sir,” Albert began, selecting each word carefully, considering the meaning and the outcome, “but I cannot help but ask you, as you were a father yourself: what is it like?” he asked. Melbourne felt sick. He often did, at the mention of it. His son. The grief had made him sick. More vicious than any physical ailment. More agonising than any war-inflicted injury. More powerful than death. As dark as sleep. As disturbed as a nightmare. His eyes hollowed, skin mottled grey, blood drained. “Please, sir, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” Melbourne said, firmly, “No, sir, you did not. It’s just…” he paused, for fear of saying something that was ignited within his emotions. Something he didn’t mean or, rather, something he did mean but did not wish to share with the Prince. He paused in thought, if that were possible. “Being a father is the dearest blessing on this earth, your Royal Highness. It is the pinnacle of manhood. Nothing is more… rewarding. Nothing more humbling. To see… to see your child. Your own flesh and blood… the product of the most sacred bond between man and woman. To see that… to hold that, in your arms. There is no greater joy,” he spoke, his voice cracking into a whisper as tears took his eyes. His intake of breath was shuddered, before he forced more words from his mouth, fighting the onslaught of emotion. “You are so lucky, your Highness. I wish I could do it again, I really do.”

Hours passed. Hours passed into more hours. The day broke and more people arrived and left, arrived and left, forming an equilibrium of souls, all tense, all nervous, all expectant to see the Queen – but no one saw her. Albert was called up. He left. All eyes were on him as he ascended the staircase. All attentions were riveted. Hours passed. Hours passed into more hours. A midwife fled down the staircase and called out,

“Lord Melbourne, the Queen is calling for you!”

For him? He had no time to question it. Feeling the eyes burn into him, feeling the attentions prick, he followed the midwife up the stairs, clinging on to the banister for fear of falling. He moved with great pace and great unease. He knew she called him. He could feel it. He felt it dragging him. He felt it move his feet. He felt it call upon his soul.

The midwife opened the door, and moved with speed into the room. Melbourne, who had once moved with speed, stopped in the doorframe, and looking to the Queen, who was crying out, covered by sheets and surrounded by people, Albert and Lehzen holding her hands as she screamed. Her skin was wet with sweat. Her body heaved and her face was red. Her knuckles were white. She looked at him, but did not see him. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling before she released a great noise that ripped through her small frame. It tore through Melbourne.

His stillness came from a sensation. The sensation of being somewhere where you are not welcome: a chill in the blood and a disturbance of the skin, a tensing in the muscles. A sense of not belonging. He understood the arrogance of thinking of himself at a time like this, but could not deny nor ignore the uneasy feeling gathering in the pit of his stomach.

“Lord M!” she cried, groaning, agonised. Her pain wounded Lord Melbourne, who stood in the doorway, made dumb by her pleas and struck very still. “Lord M!” she repeated after a long cry and a laboured push, hardly conscious but fully aware of the absence of her dear friend. Albert and Lehzen, by the Queen’s side, turned to the Prime Minister who stood aimlessly at the door, not taking his eyes off the Queen for one moment, but making no advance towards her. _“William!”_ the Queen cried, again, desperate for him. The words spilled from her and fell stickily into the room. They gripped Melbourne by the collar and held him there, suspended.

“Lord Melbourne, you’d better come over!” Albert prompted, gripping his wife’s hand, distressed by the fervour of her demands and how she was going unanswered.

“Uh- yes. Yes, of course.”

Finding his speed again, he hurried to the Queen’s side. Both of her hands were taken, so he did not know what to do. He stood. He thought he should speak, but did not know what to say. He felt foolish. He felt pointless. Without her guiding his way. He had wanted to feel warm in this moment, to imagine that she was giving birth to his child. But it did not feel that way at all. She cried out, and it only made him feel cold. She was in pain, and it only wounded him. He saw her hand grip Albert’s, and it only made him weep.

“Lord Melbourne,” she groaned, breathing in thick and rasping puffs. He knelt almost instinctively, moving closer to her beside.

“I am here, Ma’am,” he replied, “I am here.” He had hoped his voice would sound soft, and be a comfort. But his stress riddled his words. He hurt. He was hurting.

“I am afraid, Lord Melbourne. I am…” she stopped to push and cry, throwing her head back, “I am afraid!”

“My love, do not be…” Albert began, holding the Queen’s hand tighter.

“Lord Melbourne!” Victoria cried out, pushing harder and letting out a more feverish groan. Her eyes rolled back into her head as his name continued to be whispered from her lips, like a mantra. He should not be here. He should not be here. Melbourne reminded himself that he should not be here. This was not wise. This was not wise.

He was acting out of impulse now, not sense.

“You are strong, Ma’am. You are strong. You are stronger than this.”

Strength gathered from his words. Strength, wisdom, love. Love. They did not touch. But Melbourne could swear that he had touched something in her. She cried out again. He fractured.

_“You are strong.”_

Day broke, and the child was born. The child was alive, and healthy, and beautiful. Lord Melbourne saw the child briefly, before he was passed to the parents. The two happy parents. The happy couple. The child was soft and pink and rounded, like a peach or a pillow. Victoria, her hair falling around her face which was now so calm, looked to her child with all the love in the world. It was the same expression that Caroline gave, a lifetime ago. Back then, he had held the child, and looked to it with the same love pouring from him. But now that was the Prince’s job: and he played the role beautifully.

It comforted him, to see the Queen so happy, and he knew she would be a wonderful mother. He had always known. He had only ever wished for her happiness, and he must find solace in seeing her happy, alive, well, and in love. In that, he must find comfort.

He was asked to stay, to see the child, to talk to the Queen once she had recovered a little. The offer was tempting, ever so tempting. He almost accepted. _Almost._

But he knew he couldn’t. He was not a part of this. It did not matter how much he wished he were. He politely declined the offer and, not saying a word to the Queen, left the palace unattended, silently, and took the carriage back to Brocket Hall.

The Queen asked where Lord Melbourne had gone, and was told that he had left.

_“Oh.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading - and thanks for all the lovely feedback!
> 
> Next, I'm tempted to do something a little Christmassy! Let me know what you think. Also, I'm accepting prompts for another multi-chapter fic, so feel free to prompt!

**Author's Note:**

> A two-chapter fic this time! I've been imagining what episode 8 would have been like if Lord Melbourne had been there, and so this came to me. I hope you enjoyed, and the second chapter is on its way!


End file.
